Stars in Their Eyes
Page 10
Why didn’t he say anything?
Her cheeks grew hot. She’d made a fool of herself. “There, now I’ve said it. You don’t have to say it back, of course, there’s no reason for you to also reciprocate any feelings I—”
“I love you too.”
Her heart soared. He loved her. After all this time, he still loved her. She wanted to hear it again. Her hand reached up to cup his cheek. When he laid his hand over hers, she shivered.
“I love you very much, Iris,” he repeated.
He leaned toward her and captured her lips with his. Her toes curled. Owen pressed her tightly against him, his hands settling on her hips. The raindrops started to ease up. By the time she pulled away, only a light drizzle sprinkled onto her cheeks. Their breaths fogged together, emitting human smoke into the night air.
• • •
Owen had always been a planner. In school, he had filled out an agenda for all his assignments. He didn’t understand why some of his friends roamed around the city without a destination in mind. He hated the risk of getting lost. Everything he began needed to have a concrete end. Yet as he walked with Iris to her hotel, he couldn’t bring himself to think of one.
They passed by a park, two bubbling fountains, and a band playing a bastardized Louis Armstrong song. They held hands tightly. Iris swung their arms together as they walked, casting a “V” shadow against the sidewalk that reminded him of a bird in flight. Three teenagers on their bikes sang an old love song to them as they rode past, cackling as they turned the street corner.
“They’re children,” he said.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a child.”
In her hotel room, his story sat on the low table. The front page showcased several scattered coffee rings. He’d written the first draft months ago, staying up past midnight to finish it in a fit of inspiration. He wrote it for himself, a tribute to a woman he used to know. He’d given it to Gertrude on a whim. He would have never imagined it would land in the hands of an editor.
“Owen, come look at this.”
He joined Iris next to the door. She held a note in her hand.
“It’s from Pierre.”
He bristled. If this was a confession of love, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. “What’s he saying?”
“He’s decided to stay back in Paris for another week.”
“Was he supposed to leave with you?”
“He was. But that’s not it. He wants to know if you’ll take his ticket to New York instead.”
She had to be joking. He took the note from her. There was Pierre’s handwriting all right, the neat cursive spelling out his ticket’s availability. How could Owen ever repay him? He looked at her, the note, her again.
“Well?”
He could meet Max Perkins. He could write in Los Angeles. He could be with her. He could make up for lost time, all the time they’d let slip between them.
A grin spread across his face. “I would love to.”
“Where are you planning to stay?”
“First, I need to meet an editor in New York. It wouldn’t be long, just stopping in the city.”
“Oh, an editor wants to publish your book? That’s wonderful!”
“Not yet. He read one of my stories and would be interested in seeing more.”
“That’s a promising start.”
“We’ll see. Your career’s the one that’s about to take off. I’m sure directors have taken notice of all your recent roles.”
“Hopefully. Or I’ll continue to go at it on my own. I don’t need Pierre. I used to think I did. But even his introductions or offers won’t shape my career. Only I can.”
This was the Iris he recognized, fueled by a fire in her belly. It would keep plenty of studio executives on their toes.
“Where would you go after New York?”
He took her hand in his. “I’ve been thinking about LA.”
She kept her voice even, though a matching smile graced her features. “Well, if you ever need a place to stay, I have enough space in my apartment.”
“I might take you up on that.”
“I’m sorry we’d be leaving Paris, though. You really wanted to move here.”
“The city was never my dream. Writing was.”
“But you said you wanted to be here for your work.”
He laughed. “And I was wrong. I came here in pursuit of becoming a novelist, but I didn’t need a place to inspire my best writing. What I needed was a certain person.”
She wrapped her arms around him, and he kissed her forehead. It was becoming a reflex. When he held her tighter, she placed her head on his shoulder and made a content sound.
There were some things in life that always felt right to Owen. Writing. Planning. Drinking black coffee once in the morning and once in the evening. Reading the newest novel from a favorite author by firelight. Sketching along the Seine. He had a long list. And yet despite all that was on it, tonight he knew there was one more thing on that list, one thing more important than any of the rest of them: Iris Wong.
Turn the page for an excerpt from
Revolutionary Hearts
Chapter One
Village of Hathras, United Provinces of Agra and Oudh, British Raj, India
1924
What in the blazes was he supposed to do?
Warren read the wrinkled letter again for the thirtieth time that afternoon. The paper had faded yellow from its long journey across the Atlantic and had become creased in too many places to count. The shorthand method was familiar to him, but the contents of the letter were not.
He cursed beneath his breath. His previous years spent in the National Bureau of Criminal Identification investigating domestic anarchists hadn’t been this difficult. At least he would be able to dash away on a moment’s notice, unseen and unheard. The U.S. government had placed him as a blasted British general! He couldn’t just slip away anymore.
Where was the nearest other U.S. operative, anyway? Lucknow, most likely. But that was more than 300 kilometers away. He couldn’t steal one of the cars without the other soldiers running after him. And Lucknow was hardly a short motorcycle ride.
Warren pressed the letter against the oak table, his fingers running along the folded creases of the missive. He interpreted the shorthand as he read it aloud to himself, if only to confirm the message was true. Perhaps he had misread. “Agent, we regret to inform you that we have reason to suspect your identity has been compromised. The NBCI has folded into the FBI. Find a way to return home.”
He crumpled up the letter and shoved it into the roaring flames stoking in the marble fireplace. Home. Back to America. How on earth did they expect him to do that?
Warren rubbed his jaw with his hand, placing one elbow over the mantel. He had no time for this, not when he didn’t even have information to report back to the NBCI yet. They’d sent him to ferret out rumors that one of the Indian revolutionaries was an anarchist with the potential to influence rebels back in the States. What was his mission now that the bureau had become absorbed into the Federal Bureau of Investigation? He’d heard whispers of what the organization did, of course, and he assumed it was more than catching anarchists. But without any direct contact with the bureau, only the devil knew what the FBI would want him for. Did he still have a job? The Indians had only started to voice civil unrest, and there was so much knowledge yet to be discovered.
His eyes wandered to the open window. Wispy, white curtains framed the view outside his mansion, where he could see the tops of houses from the nearest village. There. That was where he needed to be. That was where all the real action was happening, not shut inside the safety of marble walls.
“Sahib?”
He looked up at the sound of his butler’s voice. The Indian bowed before him, his turban shaking a bit as he stood back up. The man kept his eyelids hooded, avoiding direct eye contact with his employer.
Warren winced. As much as he’d tried to acclimate himself to the Bri
tish colonial culture, he never understood the servant system here. It was no better than the old slavery back in the States.
“What is it?”
“The gardener has brought a new maid for you.”
He raised a brow. “When did I request a new maid?”
“He says you will not turn her away, sahib. She is to replace one of the older maids who works here.”
In the passing seconds, the orange flames hissed and crackled in the fireplace as they eroded the logs. The contents of the letter were stored away as nothing more than dust and ash, and his message from home had faded into smoke.
So had his hard-won position undercover.
“Send them in.” What did it matter, a new servant or an old servant? Neither was going to help him maintain his position. How could anyone have suspected him? It certainly wasn’t the way he portrayed himself. His British accent had become nearly second nature. He barely remembered what he sounded like without it.
His fists clenched, straining his upper arms in the starched general’s uniform he wore. How on earth could the NBCI not send him any instruction on how to return home?
The turbaned servant bowed once more. His slippers padded softly against the marble flooring as he exited the room. The floor was nearly as elegant as the rest of the ballroom, complete with a crystal chandelier, gold-leafed accents, and colorful murals that would rival the works found in St. Peter’s Basilica. He had to admit that when he’d stolen the real general’s identity, he hadn’t expected a house quite so opulent. It would be difficult leaving such a lavish place. Maybe the NBCI had it wrong. Maybe his identity wasn’t compromised . . . yet.
“General Carton, sahib, this is my sister.”
Warren turned his attention away from the comfortable palace he’d learned to call home and toward the gardener. He recognized Raj . . . the one whom his chain in command had told him to keep an eye on. Raj Singh had risen to fame in the record books of the National Bureau of Criminal Identification as an anarchist determined to overthrow the British government. He’d started to gather quite the following, the bureau had been alarmed to find out. Their brilliant idea had been to dispatch Warren as a British general. He found the idea laughable in retrospect. Yes, of course, the British general would be informed of all the revolutionaries’ secrets.
“Raj.” He nodded to his gardener and then turned his attention to the woman standing next to him. She was several inches shorter than Raj and slighter in build. A long veil covered her head, and a faded red sari draped over her slim shoulders. “Lower your veil.”
The girl dropped her veil. He studied her with the quick precision of an operative scanning a target.
Her Eurasian skin was tan, not quite as dark as the other Indian maids in his house but not light enough to be British. Half-Indian, he guessed. He’d heard during his training that they were rare, but his time in India had proved quite the opposite. She looked like she was in her mid-twenties. Her dark, wavy hair fell to her shoulders. Her thick eyebrows were high and arched, her lips full and plump. Though her veil had been covering her face moments before, she stood with her chin tilted upward. Pride shone in her eyes as she met his gaze with a challenging look.
“Parineeta Singh. She will serve as the new maid in place of our grandmother.”
“Hello, Miss Singh,” Warren began in Hindi. “Why do you wish to take your grandmother’s place here?”
Her eyes flashed with an emotion he was surprised to decipher as anger. Before he could apologize, she responded in British-clipped English, with nearly no trace of an accent. “She has served enough of her time in this prison. It is my turn to take her place.” She bit her lip immediately after her response, as if afraid of what she’d say if she continued speaking.
Raj elbowed his sister.
Warren held up his hand. “It is quite all right.” A corner of his mouth twisted upward. She was not simply any maid after all. “What makes you so convinced this is a prison, Miss Singh?”
She remained silent.
“Go on,” he encouraged. Now this was the information he needed to report back to the National Bureau . . . FBI, he corrected. Damn, he needed to find out what this new FBI wanted him for. No more battle plans or details of rebellions; he’d had enough of those. He needed real accounts from Indians about the effects of this anarchist’s leadership.
“The way you treat us as racially inferior.”
“I should hope not. And how do you know such flawless English?”
“My mother taught it to me.” Learned it from her British soldier, Warren presumed. The girl looked away from him and toward the marble floor. The challenging expression was still set by the fierce look in her eyes, but she seemed to be trying to displace it somewhere else.
He narrowed his eyes at her. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and her head was turned slightly downward now. There would be no more information from her today. But she was spirited. She was willing to share the details he needed. And she was, he noted, Raj’s sister. If he could not gain information from Raj himself, she would be the next best source. Perhaps I will return home with useful information after all.
“Miss Singh, I do not think I want you as a household maid.” Warren smiled. This would work out very well. “You will assist me, and me alone, in my study.”
The girl looked up; her large, brown eyes widened in surprise and her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.
“My study is in that direction.” He pointed down the hall. “That is all. Thank you,” he added in Hindi to Raj.
Warren couldn’t resist one last peek at the fireplace. Miniature marble columns flanked the collection of ashes and flame on both sides. No traces of the letter. For now, his identity was safe.
His footsteps echoed on his walk to the study. The framed portraits of British generals before him lined the walls. Their images looked the same, one after another: brown uniform, handlebar mustache, judgmental gaze at Warren’s disguise.
The Anglo-Indian girl’s pretty face as she dismissed him on her way out of the room flashed through his mind. He furrowed his brow. When had he ever cared for women’s looks when on a mission? Her appearance didn’t matter; her words did.
Judge me now, he wished to say to the paintings. For however long his mission would last, he would not return to the States empty-handed. He hadn’t just found a maid—he’d found a source of information.
• • •
“What was it? What did he say?” Raj grabbed Parineeta’s shoulders and whirled her around to face him.
“I . . . ” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I am to help him in his study?”
“Perfect!” Raj grabbed both of his sister’s hands. His weathered palms squeezed her smooth ones. “I want you to remember everything he says, all right? Anything he says about our independence movement . . . I want you to remember it all.”
A sense of unease gathered in her gut. She knew her brother had always wanted an inside perspective of how the British assessed the growing noncooperation movement. “But he did not ask me to be his maid. I have no training to assist in office work.”
Her brother rattled on. “Aye Bhagwan, this has worked out better than I’d hoped.”
She scratched the back of her ankle with her other foot, shifting her weight. It didn’t make any sense. She nibbled her lower lip. “Why would he ask me, though?”
Raj shrugged. He leaned against the doorway of their grandmother’s house, one hand resting on the wooden frame. “Why does it matter? The gods have chosen you to help us win our freedom! Don’t you want that?”
She stepped inside the house, passing through the cramped kitchen. “Of course I do, I just . . . ” She could have sworn the sparkling crackles of a flame had singed the air when she spoke to General Carton. She’d half-expected him to strike her for disobedience. The same punishment happened to countless other girls when they spoke out against a British master or made a mistake. Why had he looked amused when she spoke instead?
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“This is your purpose in life, Nita. Never forget that. This is how we avenge the death of our mother, the abandonment of your father . . . ”
She bristled at the sudden mention. The deceptive scum of a British soldier who’d abandoned her mother when he found out she was pregnant? She’d heard the story only too many times from their mother before her passing.
“I know, Raj.”
Her brother stayed in the doorway, surveying her. Ambition gleamed in his brown eyes. “Remember when you used to follow me to revolutionary meetings?”
She’d been but a child at the time. Her gaze shifted in the direction of the other small houses in the village, covered in dust and still exactly the same as fifteen years ago. “Whatever happened to those meetings?”
“The previous general who lived here suspected us. We meet in a neighboring village now.” He lifted his chin. “Would you like to join us at the next meeting? Not as an observer but as an active participant?”
The heady rush of Raj’s invitation washed over her. Her bare feet stood still in the swirling dirt as the scorching rays of the sun beat against the back of her neck. “Why?”
“You are a woman now. You will help us win this fight. You will help us defeat this foreign ruler and all the other men like him who seek to deny us independence.”
The general’s blue-green eyes hadn’t conveyed an angry man who would command troops on the palace grounds or one who barked orders to his Indian servants. His eyes seemed . . . kind. Parineeta shook her head. She couldn’t let herself be distracted. Kind or not, this man was capable of dangerous things.
She hadn’t found a job; she’d found a way to help free her country.
About the Author
Pema Donyo is a full-time finance professional, part-time author, and at-all-times coffee lover. She currently lives in San Francisco. Learn more on her website: http://pemadonyo.wordpress.com.